


Super Secret Spy Stuff

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Drinking, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, cocktails, discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-30 12:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20447150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Desmond survives the Eye and afterwards Shaun and Rebecca decide he needs a break - undercover at Stark Industries.ABANDONED WORK, ENDS IN CLIFFHANGER





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by nimadge

"So, I have some good news, some not so good news, and a proposition," Shaun says while throwing himself on the chair beside the couch, startling Desmond from reading the news on his phone. "Looks like we've made a clean getaway – Abstergo is still tracking down the Grand Temple, but thanks to all the satellites frying all over the globe, their global positioning is a bit off. By, like… a hundred kilometres or so. So, unless they can find an eyewitness – and Bill is tracking most of those down – I think we're in the clear as far as the Grand Temple goes."

"That's good," Desmond says, giving him a wary look. He's being too chipper, and Chipper Shaun Hastings is a worrisome sight. "What's the bad news, then?"

"Not so good news," Shaun says, waving a hand. "Nothing that constitutes as bad news, yet. Abstergo obviously not the only game in town anymore, and not the only ones who got pinged about the Grand Temple – you just can't swing a global aurora borealis that blocks out a Superflare without someone noticing, these days."

"Okay, who else noticed – NASA?"

"Would that we'd be so lucky – no. SHIELD," Shaun says and then holds his hand in what he thinks is a soothing gesture. "Not to worry, they are about as way off as Abstergo about the location, but they know Someone did Something and they want to get in on it, so to speak. I am throwing them – and also Abstergo – off with random fake witness accounts posted online, sending them off on a wild goose chase across the globe, it should keep them off our back. But it's something to keep in mind."

Desmond lifts his head a little and lowers the phone to his chest, closing the screen. "SHIELD – isn't that the alphabet soup that deals with aliens and superheroes?"

"And other funky strange unexplained phenomena," Shaun shrugs and takes out his own phone. "Nothing to worry about, we've been throwing them off our scent for decades, and honestly, recently they've been losing their touch in a major way. Still, not something you can ignore, in our modern day of alien portals and whatnot. From where we get to this."

He turns the phone around and shows Desmond a news article. Desmond hesitates, wondering if touching the phone means consenting to whatever madness Shaun – and probably Rebecca – have concocted. At Shaun's look he accepts the phone and then skims through the article.

It's about some sciency charity event they're holding in New York – a sort of fake auction of alien technology, where the winning bids actually went into funding research in said items, or something like that.

"Science is charity now?" Desmond asks warily, flicking his thumb over to look at the things on show.

"Well, I figure it's just Stark, looking to smooch money off of people who want to get their hands on some alien research and chitauri tech," Shaun shrugs. "Not a bad plan, since every tech company on Earth wants to get some. Anyway, scroll down – to the last picture. Look familiar?"

Desmond scrolls down, and there is indeed something familiar about the last piece – a three-pronged staff of burnished gold, familiar symbols running down the shaft. "Yeeaah, that looks a bit familiar, yeah."

"It's marked as one of historical oddities, possibly alien in nature," Shaun says, leaning forward. "I figure SHIELD and Stark Industries are putting a lot of money into finding alien artefacts on Earth, left by historical ancient aliens," he makes a face there and then shakes his head. "Anyway, it's kind of given that they'd pick up some more local stuff."

Desmond hums, sitting up and putting his feet on the floor. "It looks broken." He comments, zooming in on the picture. The shaft is a lot shorter than on the Papal Staff.

"Probably is – but it's still Precursor tech," Shaun says, peering at the screen. "There's a minute chance that Abstergo isn't in on this _ yet _ – a much smaller chance that they don't actually know what the Papal Staff and the Staves in general looked like. Which means, if we get in there now… we might be able to grab it before Templars can."

Desmond looks up at him, arching his eyebrows. "You want me to break into Stark Tower – or wherever this thing is held?"

"Well," Shaun says. "No, that would probably never work, the thing has better security than Fort Knox. But – "

"But," Rebecca's voice says. "There might be a way in, for you, in particular."

Desmond looks up as she enters the room, her nose in a tablet as she walks. She glances up with a grin and then throws herself beside Desmond, showing him the tablet. "They've just finished building a bar in the Avengers Tower – and would you look at that, they're looking for new employees to staff it."

Desmond looks at the pictures – which, it looks like, someone had sneaked in secret and then posted online on some chat forum. It shows a rather fancy looking bar counter, a gleaming glass shelf of bottles and glasses, and a very classy Stark Industries logo in gold against a silver background. In another tab Rebecca has Stark Industries website, with the employment opportunities page open. She's highlighted eight slots – all with notes about _ former bartending experience _being a requirement.

Desmond leans back against the backrest of the couch and looks between Shaun and Rebecca – both of whom look somewhere between smug and eager. He can't quite tell if it's just the idea of infiltrating such a public place, the Avengers Tower in specific, or if it's something else. They both look sorta overeager in that _ look what we made for you _ way, so he has a feeling it's something else.

Narrowing his eyes a little, Desmond asks accusingly, "Is this your idea of _ giving Desmond a break_?" he asks, dubiously. "Did you arrange this somehow?"

"Did we arrange Stark Industries to find a broken Piece of Eden?" Shaun asks flatly and scoffs. "No."

"But since it showed up, and since there is this thing…" Rebecca gives the tablet a meaningful little shake and looks at him hopefully. "I mean, it's so perfect, right? And you liked bartending. _ And _ you have experience in it – and a _ background _ at a bar which isn't all that shabby either. Bad Weather is like one of the most exclusive bars in New York. That gotta give you hella cred."

Desmond narrows his eyes further.

"We _ could _ send any old Assassin in," Shaun says, feigning disinterest. "If you don't care. But obviously, then the whole mission goes to their team, not us, so who knows what will happen. And we _ do _ have the most experience on PoE's out of all active Assassin cells out there."

"And getting someone into the whole Avengers business has been like a side goal. Now that the whole thing with the Solar Flare and the end of the world is over…" Rebecca trails off.

They both look at him hopefully while Desmond looks warily between them, wondering if the downtime they've been on since the flare has gone to their heads. They are all kind of getting stir crazy, with the whole _ keeping low, staying out of Abstergo's radar thing,_ speaking of which…

"And me, resuming the life Abstergo joinked me from, that won't be at all suspicious and won't get Abstergo back on our tail?" Desmond asks flatly. "They are probably tracking that background. I go and resume it, and they'll know."

"Not necessarily – not if we skew things juust a little bit," Rebecca says, grinning. "Slightly different name, slightly different history, maybe a new haircut – also Abstergo are a bit busy elsewhere."

"Too busy for _ me_?" Desmond asks, wry. "I feel so betrayed. I guess the honeymoon period is over."

"Not self-centred of you at all," Shaun snorts at him. "They are crashing, after the End of the World That Wasn't," he explains. "We're still digging into what they actually did, but they're suddenly at several billions in debt. Couldn't have happened to a better company, really. Anyway, aside from trying to find the Apple and the Grand Temple, they're quite busy trying to keep their house in order."

"Also, crashed satellites leading to broken systems – and Assassins all over the world are taking this opportunity to fuck their shit up," Rebecca adds. "It's been fun – a lot of raids, some handy technology."

"Still, not sure they would not notice if I just popped back on their radar," Desmond comments.

"Fun thing about Stark Industries – they guard their employees rather jealously," Shaun says, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms. "If you get on their payroll, you're guaranteed kidnapping-insurance. Because of all the industrial spying and superhero related nonsense. Employment at Stark Industries is one of the most sought after jobs for a reason, these days."

"Could be worth the risk," Rebecca says, giving Desmond a hopeful grin. "And if not, we can always pull you out."

Desmond looks between them while Shaun feigns not being as invested as he is, and Rebecca doesn't even bother hiding her excitement, her knee bouncing as she waits. Finally, Desmond sighs and hands Shaun's phone back.

He did really love being a bartender.

"There's no guarantee I can even get in, you know," he says. "I got some weird gaps in my CV, if you haven't noticed – like the last half a year, for example."

"We can definitely cook something up to cover up the holes," Rebecca says, bouncing to her feet. "I'm going to need anything and everything you gave out as your background at Bad Weather, anything else you got that went along with that ID, and maybe a hobby or two, and I'll make you the perfect identity. You'll see – it's going to be _ awesome._"

* * *

"So you worked previously in a bar named Bad Weather? Would you like to tell us about it?"

How Rebecca had gotten him an interview so fast, Desmond's isn't even sure he wants to know. She's put together all his working experience as Desmond Milton, name he'd been using as a bartender, and it's not a half shabby CV if Desmond so says himself – but he's not so sure it's Stark Industries material.

"I'm not sure if there's much to do, really. I waited tables at first, then I poured mixed drinks," Desmond shrugs. "I figure it's what you do in any bar."

The interviewers – there's two of them, a man and a woman, probably for minimal prejudice or something – share looks and mark something down. "Bad Weather looks to be a pretty popular bar – I imagine you had some famous customers."

"I guess," Desmond answers. "From the other side of the bar you can't really tell – most everyone orders and drinks about the same way."

"So, no interesting stories about famous people? I hear Athene Bouchard frequents Bad Weather "

Desmond considers that. It sort of rings a bell. She's like a former teen idol or something, right? "Might've, I'm not sure," he says. "To be honest, I got to know people by nicknames more than anything, and I'm not all that into celebrity gossip – if she was here, I probably completely missed her being Miss Bouchard. Sorry."

The interviewers mark something down. "Alright. What about this gap here – according to your CV you left your employment at Bad Weather six months ago – was there a reason for that?"

"Well, it's kinda embarrassing," Desmond says. "I was – uh actually I'm not sure how much I can talk about it, had to sign some confidentiality documents and stuff," he really did, Rebecca and Shaun forged some for him. "But I guess I can say I was taking part in a drug trial? Or a treatment option thing, really."

"That's an unusual career choice after bartending," the female interviewer says consideringly.

"They made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Desmond says wryly – which he hopes comes across as sheepish. "Anyway, I spent most of the last few months lying on my back on weird ergonomic chairs – it was an easy job to do, but weirdly stressful. You wouldn't think lying around doing nothing is exhausting, but it really is."

"Right. So, what made your choose our company?"

Desmond considers how to answer that. This is actually kind of the first proper job interview he's gotten and he isn't sure how you're supposed to answer these kinds of questions. "Honestly," he says. "I didn't. My friends found it and think it would be the coolest thing, I guess."

The interviewers pause at that. "So you aren't yourself interested?"

"I mean – it's not that I'm not, don't get me wrong," Desmond admits. "Not sure I get the hype, though. It's a job in what I suppose is one of the most secretive stress-filled workplaces you can find – that's why you're making a special bar for employees, right? Because they need a safe space to relax, and probably can't get that outside Stark Industries security checks. So it's probably not going to be like… easy coasting along, or whatever people think."

The interviewers share another look and the male one leans in. "That's an interesting observation. What makes you think that?"

"The one person you tell the most secrets to next to a therapist is your bartender," Desmond shrugs. "Unless it's a very shallow, _ visit once and never come back _ kind of bar, anyway. Regulars, and it looks like this place is intended for regulars, get friendly and open and tell you things you probably shouldn't know and problems you probably can't help with. And with places like Stark Industries, I figure that comes with lot of confidentiality orders and stuff – again, it's why you're making this bar, right? For people with high security clearances to be able to let loose once in a while."

"You've given this a lot of thought," the female interviewer muses, thoughtfully.

"Bad Weather had confidentially orders too, sort of," Desmond says. Or more like unspoken_ talk about these people and there will be hell to pay _ contracts. Desmond still isn't sure if Mike was part of organised crime or not, but sometimes it felt like it.

There's a moment of silence as they think this over and then shuffle through their papers. "Before Bad Weather, you worked in Detroit. Why don't you tell us about that?"

"Which job?"

The male interviewer considers his CV. "This one – the Eden Club?"

"Another bar?" the female interviewer asks, as if she didn't already know it wasn't.

"Nah – a strip club. I was just a janitor," Desmond admits. "I cleaned the bathrooms and wiped the floors, did basic maintenance, stuff like that. I covered for one of the bartenders couple of times when she was sick, but in general I just kept the place clean."

"A bit of a leap, from a strip club janitor in Detroit to a bartender of a high class bar in New York."

"I needed a change of pace and the owner gave me a solid referral," Desmond says with a badly smothered snort. Not that he had much of a choice - the club was under investigation and everyone knew he lied about his age. The boss couldn't send him off fast enough 

"Why don't you tell us about the sort of things you did in Eden Club."

Honestly Desmond's employment history is a bit of a mess, even with Rebecca and Shaun fluffing it up. He traveled around a bunch, worked whatever odd jobs he could get – Bad Weather was his longest bit of employment, really. There are gaps where he used a different name, and considering that Desmond has zero actual schooling – even the fake highschool diploma Shaun got to him is a bit of a joke, since Desmond didn't want them to make him seem smarter than he actually is, and really, there's no space for education in his messy history. To cover up for the lack of it, Rebecca had faked him some online self-study courses, but they were just a small footnote in the hobbies section of his CV. In all total, Desmond doubts it will actually get him the job.

The bit about the Animus thing being a secret Abstergo drug trial is _ hilarious, _ but will probably not help either. Doubtfully Stark Industries – or anyone – would take on someone who throws themselves into random drug trials. That's just irresponsible.

Well, it's a fun little experiment anyway.

* * *

"You got the job."

Desmond looks up from the book he's reading. "What?"

Rebecca all but bounces giddily. "You got the job – Stark Industries sent you an email, they expect you at the tower in two days, you start on a trial period. Two weeks, hourly pay, and if they like you, half a year contract."

Desmond stares at her. "How the _ hell_?"

She grins. "Well, it's Stark Industries. They like people with weird employment histories and unconventional experiences – and the Abstergo thing?" she kisses her fingers. "Stroke of genius, you may thank me anytime."

Desmond blinks. "I thought it would be an instant turnoff really – who'd take on a guy who volunteers for medical experimentation? I mean, it is pretty ironic to claim the whole thing a drug trial, you can have props for that, but still…"

"Ha! You forget who these people work for – and who lives in that tower and just might one day visit it. Steve Rogers – a former volunteer of a major human experimentation – and Bruce Banner – who experimented on himself!"

Desmond hums at that. He hadn't even considered it that way.

"Now comes the fun part," Shaun says. "Actually working there while Rebecca and I find us a house to live in."

"What's wrong with this place?"

"Well, for one, it's a motel," Shaun says flatly. "And for two… it's a motel."

"We'll make it look like now that you have prospective employment, you and two dear friends of yours," Rebecca motions to herself and Shaun, "have decided to become roommates. New York is expensive to live in, after all."

"You don't need to tell me, I already lived here," Desmond sighs. "I can't believe the CV actually worked, it was a mess."

"A _ perfect _ mess for Stark Industries, it turns out," Rebecca says with a grin. "I told you it would be awesome."

"Yes," Shaun agrees. "Well, congratulations, Desmond, you're no longer an unemployed useless layabout. We're all very proud of you."

"You know, of all of us, I have the longest history of being paid for my work," Desmond points out. "Legal employment – hacking stuff for Assassins doesn't count."

"It does pay, though," Rebecca says while swinging back to her feet. "And very well at that."

"Not sure if stealing from the baddies is the same as being paid," Desmond mutters.

"It's been keeping you flush with French fries, so you have no right to complain," Shaun says and hands him a paper. "Anyway your new job has a dress code, no more hoodies for you, I'm afraid – so off you pop, go do some shopping, don't come back until you find a nice dress shirt or something."

Desmond looks between him and the paper and then accepts it. "If I get kidnapped by Abstergo, I expect you to come rescue me," he says and stands up. Honestly, it's not like he would wear hoodies all the time if he had a choice – it just happens to be all he owns. Not that Shaun's tweed and blaiser loving ass has a leg to stand on.

… A hooded jacket would be nice, though. 

"What are you guys going to do in the meanwhile – aside from finding us a more permanent place?"

Shaun and Rebecca cast each other glances, just sort of winking. "This and that," Rebecca says innocently. "Get us ready to move. Find us a vehicle. Pack."

"Fake an official government issued licence or two," Shaun agrees, dismissive. "Nothing much."

Desmond looks between them warily. "Yeah, I don't even want to know."

* * *

When he comes back with a couple of bags of new clothes – and maybe a couple of new hoodies, but Shaun doesn't need to know that – it's to find that Shaun and Rebecca had indeed gotten them vehicles. One of them specifically for Desmond.

It's a motorcycle. It even comes with a driver's license.

"Okay, what did you two do?" Desmond demands.

"We didn't do anything!" Rebecca says innocently. "Honestly!"

Desmond narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"Honestly mate, you need a way to commute. Don't look too deeply into it," Shaun says dismissively. "Gift horses and teeth."

"You know there's a reason why you really should check the gift horse's teeth – you have no idea how much vet bills cost if the horse's teeth are rotting –"

"Desmond, seriously. Just accept the bloody motorcycle."

Desmond narrows his eyes further, looking between them dubiously and then looks at the motorcycle. "Did you find out I'm dying or something?" he asks. "It's this, like, the last hurrah before I completely lose my sanity?"

"What – no!" Rebecca says, horrified. "Of course not – and if you were, we would tell you!"

Shaun rolls his eyes. "It's a _ sorry for almost driving you insane and thanks for saving the world _ gift, you asshole. Just accept it."

Desmond hesitates. "Did you steal it?"

"Of course we stole it," Rebecca answers and folds her arms. "But they deserved it and we fixed it so that no one will ever know. New perfectly legit plates and everything."

"Oh, okay then," Desmond says and relaxes a little. "Thanks."

Shaun gives him a flat look. "Gifts of good will are bad, but stealing motorbikes is all dandy in your world? You have some issues, mate."

Desmond shrugs. "Yeah, I know," he says and turns to appreciate the motorcycle. It's a pretty nice one too, not a model he would've personally gone for, but still.... "Aww guys, you stole me a motorcycle. I'm touched."

"Yeah, in the bloody _ head... _"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied underage shenanigans of Desmond applying for jobs he really shouldn't be applying for at age of 17.

Bad Weather had been a two story establishment – with a chill, moody sort of lounge area on the first floor where people could actually hear themselves, and they generally played slower, quieter songs, and a nightclub above it, where the volume of the bass teetered on the edge of _heard through the soundproofed ceiling._ Desmond worked there for years – taking the occasional side job to make ends meet – but for the most of his time in New York, he'd been working at Bad Weather.

It kind of left an impression on how people who think themselves ever so slightly above others act when they get drunk. Not all of them, but most of them. It's also where he mastered the art of not letting shit stick to him, because otherwise Bad Weather and its clientele would've eaten him alive – the amount of _do you know who I am_ and _I want to talk to your manager, I am so going to get you fired_ that happened was ridiculous. That, and drinks thrown at him for not meeting the standards of their drinkers.

He learned to be a better bartender pretty fast.

The bar in the Avengers Tower looks a lot like the lower floor of Bad Weather. It has that same sleek modern look, comfy looking black leather couches and gleaming tables between them, all of them perfectly situated to create little enclosed places for parties looking for privacy while also leaving the place with an open feel. There's enough space to walk between them with ease, but not so much as to make the place look sparse. The floor, walls and ceiling are all dark to give a moodier atmosphere – though the windows kinda take away from it. Jaw-dropping view of New York skyline is nice, but Desmond isn't sure if it's a _cozy bar_ material.

He's the third hire at the bar – the first one is a short blue-haired woman named Mattie, who has a background in Las Vegas and a particularly impressive mixture of _service industry smile_ and _seen some shit_ look that makes her seem kind of immovable, like nothing will stick to her. The other is another woman, Sigrun, who is of some obscure Scandinavian origins she doesn't particularly feel like elaborating on and gives Desmond the impression of being able to suplex him. Her smile looks a little _fuck you, have a very nice day_.

"Stark Industries are hiring a _type_ here, huh," he comments.

"Honestly didn't think they were looking to hire guys at all," Mattie comments. "What with Stark and all. What's your quirk, then?"

"My quirk?"

"Yeah," Mattie says and motions to Sigrun. "She's probably here because she's got black belt on just about everything you can get a black belt in. I'm working on my thesis in Norse mythology and wrote a really, really crappy fantasy book about Vikings once. So, what's your thing?"

"Er," Desmond says and scratches at his neck. "Well, I used to work at a strip club and also volunteered for human drug trial, which kind of took the last six months of my life? That's kind of it." Unless they actually found out more than what was in his CV and the background Shaun and Rebecca doctored for him.

"Yeah, that checks out," Mattie says and Sigrun holds her hand for a solidarity fist bump.

Desmond fist bumps her. "So they're really selecting us to, uh…"

"Suit the Avengers?" Sigrun asks – she doesn't have an accent. "Seems likely. At least, seems like they are going for people with… useful traits, where the Avengers are concerned."

"We've been making bets which table here is going to be the Avengers table," Mattie says and points. "I bet it's going to be the closest to the window."

"I think by the fireplace," Sigrun says. "Fireplaces are soothing."

"There's a fireplace?" Desmond asks, interested, and the women give him a tour around the place. Turns out the windows can either show the city skyline – or they can turn into screens and show whatever scene the bar staff choose. Desmond's favourite is the Zen garden motif, though he's not sure what kind of bar night would need a Zen garden motif, really.

The bar isn't in action yet, but they're encouraged to get themselves familiar with everything so that once it would be, everyone would know what to do. They spend that first day pouring shots with their catalog of testing material and competing on who can make the most impressive drink.

Mattie wins that one with a perfect Lemon Drop made in less than twenty seconds, with zero sugar stains or sticky fingers. Desmond – who hates making the damn things with burning passion – has to give her a standing ovation for it, and though Sigrun's B-52 is very well made, even she agrees that Lemon Drops are the worst.

Desmond gets an honorary mention of trying the Blue Blazer and not setting the countertop on fire.

The bar is called fully staffed once the number of servers gets up to three, their original trio eventually joined by Nazim, a former soldier, who finds a weird sort of ironic catharsis in working as a _supplier of relaxation to former weapons manufacturer,_ and Sonja, who Desmond thinks is a former ballerina, going by how easily she can slip through the most difficult gaps between strewn couches and chairs. Mattie spends the first day trying the get Sonja to do splits, while Nazim and Sigrun arm wrestle in the background, so, in general, Desmond is feeling good about these guys.

The next day, the bar, which ends up being called the Lounge because no one has given the place an official name, opens.

* * *

Somehow, none of them expected that the first customer would be the company CEO, but it is. Pepper Potts is the first person to walk in on the opening day, making her way with an authorial click of high heels and then making herself daintily, but with a definite _prescience_, comfortable by the counter, her ankles crossed and her thirty thousand dollar purse sitting beside a little container of straws.

Despite the fact that they all sort of half expected that something like this might happen, it still stuns them all a little, to just… have her walk up like that and sit down like she owns the place. Which, really, she probably does. At least she rules it, anyway.

"Good evening. Someone please make me something non-alcoholic, but make it seem like it's alcoholic," Miss Potts says, making herself comfortable.

Mattie is completely frozen, Sigrun looks at the ingredients with a sort of half-panicked look, Nazim, according to himself does not do non-alcoholic drinks, and Sonja almost drops the shaker when she goes for it. Desmond looks at Miss Potts and thinks he knows the look on her face. As much as she looks like a woman who really needs a drink, she also looks determined.

It's definitely a test, huh? Okay.

"Are you allergic to anything?" he asks, considering the available options.

Miss Potts smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Strawberries."

"Okay – do you want it sweet or unsweet?"

"Something little bitter would be better, thank you," the CEO says calmly and then watches as Desmond mixes the drink to her, casting a glance at her, and then making it in a high-stemmed glass.

"Grapefruit Rosemary Fizz," he says, serving the drink onto a coaster while the other bartenders stare at him warily. "On the house, I imagine."

Miss Potts lets out a sort of harrumphing laugh. "Put it on a tab," she says and takes the drink, considering it without actually taking a drink from it. "I know you have all signed confidentiality contracts and I do not have to enforce them – we have lawyers for that. But there is a number of unspoken rules, which you need to be aware of."

Desmond folds his arms while Nazim stands in near attention and the women move to listen.

"First, Steve Rogers is physically incapable of getting drunk," Pepper Potts says. "The alcohol burns off him the moment it hits, which makes bar-going experiences a little awkward for him. Accommodate him accordingly."

Desmond arches his brows while the others' eyebrows shoot up. Oh boy.

"Second, Bruce Banner _can_ get drunk – but should not ever get blackout drunk," Miss Potts says, still considering the drink. "For obvious reasons. Likely he will never try, but if it comes to it, you cut him off at a nice buzz."

Well, that's not worrisome at all.

"Clint Barton can drink whatever, he is a cheerful drunk and won't cause you much trouble. So as long as anyone doesn't challenge him to a game of darts anyway. Do not suggest drinks with vodka to Natasha Romanoff, she won't be amused," Miss Potts continues. "Thor can drink anyone and anything under the table – drinking competitions with him involved are _not_ a good idea. Overall he is a cheerful drinker, however, so as long as he's not leading anyone else to alcohol poisoning, serve him whatever."

And for the last, the big one.

"Tony…" Miss Potts trails off and sighs. "Tony will get irritated if you suggest non-alcoholic drinks, but he is trying to quit drinking_. Do not_ make it unnecessarily difficult or embarrassing for him."

Finally, she takes a drink, while the bartenders share nervous looks and Desmond wonders if maybe the duty of getting stressed superheroes safely drunk and relaxed would be a bigger part of the job than he thought. He'd kind of assumed it wouldn't be, and that their customers would be mostly just Stark Industries higher-ups, but maybe not. It is kind of weird for Stark Industries to make their own special bar. Cafeteria, sure, maybe even a café, okay. But a high class cocktail bar?

Miss Potts hums at the drink and then nods. "This is a good start," she says, touching the rim of the glass. "Now I would like an Irish coffee, and bring it to a table, please," she says and stands up, picking up her purse in one hand and the half finished drink in the other. "And change the window to something forestry and soothing – the Marketing Team is heading up here soon, and they have had a _day_."

While Sigrun changes the curtains and Sonja makes the Irish coffee, Desmond clears away the supplies he used to make the drink, feeling rather pleased about himself. It might've been just a test, but looks like she liked it enough to want to finish it. Now that's an ego boost.

Mattie pats his back in passing, and soon they get introduced to the sum of drama and stress that is the Marketing Team of Stark Industries.

* * *

"So, give me the deets, I wanna hear _everything_," Rebecca says eagerly while Desmond pushes the motorcycle into their new garage, to join the van sitting there. They've had their new house less than two days, and already the garage is a dumping ground of empty boxes and discarded bits of hardware.

"You know, I actually signed a lot of confidentiality contracts that say I can't?" Desmond says, amused, and toes the kickstand down. "They can _dissappear_ me if I break confidentiality, you know, it's very serious business."

"Oh, come on. We're Assassins and we got you that job, it's not like it applies to us," Rebecca says with a dismissive little psh. "Come on, something must've happened, you can tell me."

Desmond ignores her in order to fetch the grocery shopping from his saddle bag. "I was thinking spaghetti, tomorrow – it's my turn to cook, right?"

"Honestly, considering that you're the only one getting out of the house for extended periods of time, it should probably our job to cook and stuff," Rebecca muses. "Would be only fair – but don't think you're getting outta this. I wanna hear about your day at work, Desmond, come on. Did you have any _incidents_?"

"Not really. Made some drinks, served some drinks, washed some glasses, wiped some tables," Desmond says, smiling a little while moving past her with the grocery back. "It was a regular old day of work, really."

"Oh, _come on_ –"

They head to the house – a quaint little two story affair, which kind of tickles Desmond pink. He's not lived in an actual _house_ since leaving the Farm – generally it was either apartments or street corners. This place is an old Assassin hideout, he thinks, which is how they got it so easily and without too much trouble. But still. It's a _house_.

It's just nice, even if it's doomed to be only temporary.

Shaun and Rebecca have completely taken over the living room with computers and screens, of course – they kind of look like they've multiplied while he was at work, too. It also kind of looks like Rebecca is tinkering with the Animus, again, which Desmond gives a wary side eye.

Shaun looks up from his work as they enter through the side door. "Desmond, welcome home. How was work, did you see anyone famous?" he asks with requisite amount of sarcasm.

"Hi Shaun – I got you gin," Desmond says and lifts the bag.

"You unrepentant bartender. Cheers," Shaun says, blinking, and accepts the bottle. "Do we have any grape soda left?"

"I bought another bottle, if we don't."

"He is refusing to share all the juicy gossip," Rebecca bemoans. "I bet something happened, but he's being a dick and not saying."

Shaun blinks at her and then opens the gin bottle. "Desmond, stop being a dick and tell Rebecca all the gossip."

"Well," Desmond says, flat, "There was this one really passionate woman who spent whole night complaining about the inherent problematic nature of Stark Industries making a bar for its employees alone, essentially turning them into customers and making them hand back the money Stark Industries pays them."

Rebecca considers that. "That's it?" she asks. "Something else must've happened, that can't be it."

Desmond shrugs and heads for the kitchen. "Sorry, no Avengers in the clientele tonight, it was just the Stark Industries marketing team, mostly. And a few secretaries. And a couple of guys from the security who were looking to hit on the secretaries…"

"Lame."

"You know, considering that pubs are essentially places to get picked up," Shaun says thoughtfully, "It's weirdly corporately incestual, the whole thing. Employees of SI, meeting other employees of SI under the dim lights of the bar, having ill-advised relations leading to poorly conceived relationships and marriages. If two SI employees have a kid, does that kid have higher chance of also growing up into a SI employee?"

"Not sure employment is genetic," Desmond snorts.

"So says the Assassin of a long line of _hereditary_ Assassins," Shaun calls back. "Pretty sure your employment is a _dominant_ gene."

"Should pay better, then, wouldn't have to work as a bartender."

"Considering that Tony Stark himself _is_ a hereditary Stark Industries employer, I think you might be onto something," Rebecca says thoughtfully. "I wonder how many employees in that place are actually kids of former employees – the company has been around for a while, so it's not beyond the realm of possibility. Hmm, maybe there are studies about this…"

She heads back to the living room, probably to check, and with a shake of his head Desmond puts the groceries away before moving to make himself a sandwich.

"It probably works more like an STD, all things considered," Shaun says, coming to the kitchen to get the grape soda, probably. "By the way, There's been a couple of blips on Desmond Milton radar."

"I have a radar?" Desmond asks.

"I have one with your name on it," Shaun answers while digging the opened bottle of soda from the fridge. "Obviously, since Abstergo knows it, I made sure to keep an eye on it. So far nothing on Abstergo's side, not sure if they are even looking for you anymore – but I did get a ping. In Detroit. Anything you want to share?"

Desmond blinks. "Detroit?"

"Yeah. From Detroit Police Department," Shaun agrees and gives him a look. "Someone there has actually been looking for Desmond Milton of Eden Club for a couple of months now."

Desmond frowns, thinking about it, trying to remember if he'd done anything illegal back then. He'd been barely legal – and definitely not legal enough to work at a _strip club_ – at the time, so maybe that's it? "Is Eden Club _still_ under investigation?"

"Still?" Shaun asks, arching his brows while grabbing a glass. "Did you kill someone in there?"

"What, _no_," Desmond say and makes a face at him. "I was like _eighteen_, Shaun, and I was trying to _not_ get in trouble. No, I didn't kill anyone."

Shaun shrugs. "Ezio was killing people left and right by the time he was seventeen, and who knows what Altaïr did when he was young," he says. "You never know. So, what did you do then?"

"Nothing… but I did get booted from the job because they got in trouble for cooking the books or something, and the boss did not want to add potential issues of having hired a seventeen year old to mop the floors in there," Desmond admits and shrugs. "I told them I was 21, but it wasn't going to pass scrutiny. Anyway, that's the only reason I think anyone might look for me in Detroit, as, like, a witness or something – I honestly didn't do much there."

"Hm," Shaun answers while mixing his drink. "Well, whatever it is, they now know you work for Stark Industries, so. Might be getting a call from DPD. Here's hoping you weren't framed for murder or something."

"Wonderful, I'll look forward to it. Hey, can you pour me one too?"

Shaun looks up. "Who's the bartender here?"

"I just spent all evening pouring drinks for other people, I think I deserve to have one poured for me," Desmond says, giving him a puppy-dog-eye-look. "Please? I had a hard day at work and everything, had to listen to people complain about marketing. There were statistical terms thrown around. There was _math_. It was _terrible_."

"Ugh, it's _maths_, for _mathematics_, with an _es_, you uncultured…" Shaun mutters, but pours him a drink anyway. "You'd think you'd want something fancy you made yourself, being a bartender of a cocktail bar and everything. Like a layered drink or something. Why do we have to make your drinks at home?"

Desmond shrugs and accepts the glass, giving Shaun a smile. "Drinks made by a friend always taste better. Cheers."

Shaun harrumphs and pretends not to be pleased, the surly asshole. "Speaking of, you need to make me a Shirley Templar sometime."

"Yeah, sure. Gonna need some ginger ale and grenadine though."

In the living room Rebecca lets out a laugh. "Statistically speaking, Stark Industries employment is actually more like abstinence-only-birth-control!" she hollers gleefully. "You have a better chance of getting in if you _haven't_ slept with someone on the inside."

"Isn't that _most_ jobs?" Desmond calls back while Shaun snorts into his drink.

"In theory, sure, but in practice? Hah!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: i am not a bartender.

Stark Industries has certain… cliques, which Desmond and the others at the Lounge come to know very quickly.

The Marketing Team is a regular – they like to complain and occasionally bitch, and they want someone who isn't already informed to listen to their bitching, to make it all seem new and exciting, probably. They tend to hang around the counter, and Desmond usually ends up being the one who listens, because he actually kind of enjoys being complained at.

Human Resources people don't talk much, but boy, do they drink a lot. Usually if they talk about anything, it's nothing to do with Stark Industries or its employees – probably because they get enough of that at their job. Sonja handles them, in the end – she has a whole array of random information that has nothing to do with Stark Industries to keep anyone entertained.

Advertising, after first tentative customers have come and gone, sends their people in regularly, to get drunk and sketch out ideas to be screened through later for the best ones – the bar staff learns to keep paper and crayons at the ready. Why crayons? Who knows, but it's crayons or nothing. They have a bad habit of rearranging tables. Someone always ends up bursting into a bad attempt of a jingle.

The Secretaries aren't so much a _group_ as they are a small army. In Stark Industries, everything runs on the power of Secretarial Work – and the Secretary Army answers directly to Pepper Potts' personal secretary. They are also the worst for inside-company gossip – as in, they want some. Mattie handles them, mostly, she has particular talent about saying what people want to hear without actually committing to anything or giving away any secrets.

The security guys tend to come in twos and threes and keep to themselves – unless they're there to hit on someone, anyway. It's kind of hilarious, the weird power dynamic there – Stark Industries is so obviously intellect-based as far as power structure goes, so all these jock-type-guys with their big muscles and thick necks come across as shy wallflowers in a room full of often manic and frankly nerdy intellectuals. And speaking of intellectuals…

The Operations guys are fun, hilarious, and sometimes terrifying to see in action. They hold pub quizzes from hell – Desmond isn't entirely sure, but he thinks some of the questions come from actual IQ tests. Apparently the whole department is into high-end problem solving, and every now and then someone will always go, "In a cave! With a Box of Scraps!" which Desmond eventually realises is a way to say _chill the fuck down_ to someone who is insisting this or that department can do better if you just put a bit of pressure on them.

There's still a whole bunch of smaller departments Desmond hasn't yet seen in action – Architecture, Agriculture, because that's a thing, Software, Engineering, Education, Sales, Legal… But he's starting to get the hang of the culture going on here – and how it's been divided into these sects of rather close knit groups. Each seems to have a personality type and sort of twisted team spirit thing going on – a little bit of us versus them, too. Interdepartmental rivalries are a thing everyone claims isn't a thing, because Stark Industries isn't _that_ kind of company, but of course it's a thing.

And then there are the secrets. Their confidentiality contracts come to full effect sooner rather than later, when the company employees feel free to discuss stuff like the up and coming tablet computer, a composting unit, which apparently might be able to break down some plastics, a new satellite phone project thingy, along with a satellite or two, oh, and did you know Stark Industries has an _AI_? Honest to god personality and feelings AI. Desmond isn't sure if that's what strikes him the most, or the highly patented hologram technology – because apparently Stark Industries has _hologram technology?!_

It's _very_ tempting to share all that with Shaun and Rebecca, because _holy shit_, even Abstergo didn't figure out holograms or AIs, and they had Precursor tech to go off on. In the end he doesn't, but if in the back of his mind he's plotting on how to get a glimpse of one or the other, well…

* * *

"Heads up," Sigrun says, utterly deadpan. "R&D's coming."

"I'm sorry?" Desmond asks, looking up from where he's picking up dirty glasses.

"Research and Development. I hear they used to make bombs, and they have not forgotten this fact," Sigrun says and then moves along, righting chairs and smiling to customers on her way to the counter – to warn the others, apparently.

Desmond hums, finishes picking up the glasses and then moves to follow.

Like most of the groups that come in, R&D enters as a group – eight of them, which would mean either reshuffling of chairs or the party would be split. They look normal enough – only one of them is wearing a lab coat, which is a little disappointing. The rest look like normal people in regular old clothing, the only marked thing about them being that none of them is particularly dressed up. Except the woman in the lab coat, who is wearing really fashionable makeup.

Then one of them comes to order. "Eight Flaming Lamborghinis."

"Excuse me?" Mattie mutters under her breath, while Nazim makes a sort of a _hiccup_ noise of incredulity.

The R&D asshole on the other side of the counter just grins, unrepentant and slightly insane. "Eight," he says, "Flaming," he holds up eight fingers, "Lamborghinis. And we want layers and proper towers."

"You got it," Sigrun answers in monotone with a sort of _oh fuck you too buddy_ smile, and then looks up at Desmond. "I'll do the layering, you do the flame."

"You got it," Desmond agrees mildly, and they do just that, while the apparent assholes of R&D settle about the bar to watch.

Sigrun does the layered shots, one after another – someone actually lets off a manic sounding snicker when she misses one of the pours and the liquors mix, and another shoulders their buddy, saying – "The third glass got more Baileys," and Desmond gets a feeling that finally they found the assholes of the company. Weird for them to be the R&D, considering that it's _Stark Industries,_ but then maybe the fame has gone to their heads.

Desmond sets dividers on the glasses Sigrun prepares and then stacks on the glasses on top, a wine glass, a snifter, and then a shot glass on the very top, all of them upside down, and while Sigrun finishes with the last layered drink, Desmond takes out the sambuca and kahlua and mixes them into shot glasses, setting them at the ready.

Mattie and Nazim have in the meanwhile gotten a couple of buckets of water – and Sonja is holding the water dispenser gun at the ready.

"Ready?" Desmond asks, and pours a little bit of sambuca on bottom of the shot glass, on top of the eight towers. While the R&D people lean in – couple of them finally looking a little bit nervous – Sigrun offers them all straws, and Desmond grabs the lighter.

Then he starts setting them on fire, touching the flame right on top, where the sambuca catches a nice blue flame. Once all have a little bit of fire going, he waits until all the customers have their straws and are ready, before taking the prepared sambuca and kahlua shots.

"Here we go," he says, and pours the shots on the flame, one after another. He doesn't get the whole tower with the first few ones – just a sort of sideways waterfall of flame, but on the later ones his pouring gets more even, and the whole glass monstrosity catches on blue flame, as the shot pours down along the glasses stacked on top of the layered drinks Sigrun had made. It's a bit of a spectacle.

They have seven burning Flaming Lamborghinis going, and Desmond is just pouring the last one, when Tony Stark walks in and sees the whole thing.

"Oh," he says, "my _god_."

The others get that _oh shit_ stillness, and the R&D guys actually flinch – Desmond looks over and then pours the last shot, sending a new cascade of flames to join the ones which are already sputtering out.

"I think that's a fire hazard and a _half_," Mr. Stark says, and he sounds almost impressed. "Whose bright idea was this? Was it you, Johnson?"

"Er," the guy – who ordered the shots – said. "Just – wanted to see if –"

"You know you're paying for those, right? You're not drinking on my tab here, as much as I like you, I am not funding your insane drinking habits – and if my brand spanking new bar catches on fire, you're paying for that too," Stark says, all but waltzing over to the bar. "Well, drink up – you've earned it."

It's a rather dispirited bunch that takes up their straws and turns to the Flaming Lamborghini towers, most of which aren't actually flaming anymore. Desmond looks between the R&D guys and Mr. Stark and then puts the lighter safely away. Somewhere behind him Nazim is letting off a sort of wheezing noise as he watches.

"What can we get for you, Mr. Stark?" Sonja asks, a little too eagerly.

"Some music to start with," the man says, offering them a smile. "You got my playlist?"

"Er, I'm sorry?"

"You totally got my playlist, everyone got my playlist," the man says and then grabs his own phone, tapping something in. Split of a second later, they are apparently _playing_ the man's playlist. It booms out of the speakers, close to deafening, and Desmond folds his arms, considering the man and his group of Research and Development guys.

There's an almost discernible _bond_ there, of shared stress and manic energy.

"There we go," Mr. Stark says and smiles. "Someone make me something not too embarrassing," he says. "Throw in a little _something something_ in there, nothing too strong, thank you, love you – and _you_," he says, already turning to the R&D guys, settling one hand heavily on Johnson's shoulder, and the other on another guy from the group. "You did good work, but I don't know if it's a Flaming Lamborghini level of good work – we shouldn't celebrate too early, things might still crash on the landing, you know how it goes."

"Yes, sir," Johnson says, weakly.

Stark watches – a bit like a hunting hawk – as the R&D guys finish their drinks, and then, clapping them on the back with pride, he ushers them off the bar and towards the window, calling, "Shots of Captain Coke for everybody!" before whipping out his phone again. While the others shuffle along in various stages of embarrassment, eagerness and sheer discomfort, Stark tinkers with the window display. It goes from soothing cottage motif to a scene from above the clouds.

"Phew," Mattie says, shaking her head, and hurries to make the ordered drinks, saying, "You got Stark, Desmond."

"Yeah, I figured," Desmond agrees, eyeing the R&D guys, who are hauling chairs in and around a single small table. Shaking his head, he then turns to make Stark a non-alcoholic drink. He figures the _something something_ is probably intended as _add some actual alcohol in it_, but since Stark didn't actually _say so_… Desmond adds a little Monster energy drink instead.

"You're a brave man, Milton," Nazim says, watching Desmond mix the thing.

"Eh," Desmond says, and sets the drink on Mattie's tray to take to the table.

Stark makes some faces at the taste of Monster, but Desmond doesn't hear any complaints, so he's good.

There's a lot of talking coming from the R&D table that evening, some shouting – Stark makes a lot of toasts and shamelessly encourages the whole group to get absolutely plastered. He nurses his own drink for as long as he can, Desmond notices – up until drunken Johnson wanders over to the counter and slurs, "Big whopping shot of the most expensive shit you got for Mr. Stark. Big whopping shot. Huge. Make it – brandy!"

Desmond gives the man a considering look while the other bartenders pretend not to be hearing it. Then, staring the man right in the eye, he pours a whiskey glass full of apple juice.

"Thassnot brandy," Johnson complains.

"Yes, it is – we just keep it in the apple juice can," Desmond says flatly. "Keeps people from stealing our expensive brandy. Do you have the money to pay for this, by the way? Our most expensive brandy is thirty thousand dollars a bottle, you know."

Johnson pales, mumbles something incoherent, and then takes the apple juice to Stark. Stark makes faces at it until he gets a sniff in, and then he bitches, something Desmond pretends not to hear, about how apple juice does not look _anything_ like brandy. Then he sends a _look_ at Desmond.

Desmond figures he might be getting fired after tonight, so he doesn't really care anymore. He's still on a trial period anyway. So he waves back and goes to wipe the counter where Johnson had smeared something sticky on the gleaming surface.

Stark drinks the apple juice though, so who knows. The night might be a success after all.

… then the R&D table starts on bar games, and forget the Operations and their pub quiz, the R&D bar games and tricks are the _worst_. There are actual laws of physics being broken at their table – whatever one of them is making out of napkins and toothpicks, it's defying gravity.

"Well, so as long as we don't have to do more Flaming Lamborghinis," Sigrun muses.

"We totally aced those drinks, tho," Desmond says and holds up his fist. She obligingly taps hers against it.

"Doesn't Stark drive a Lamborghini?" Nazim asks, while leaning his elbows on the counter and watching the R&D table closely. "Not sure if it was a homage or an expensive_ fuck you_."

"Knowing what those guys get paid, they can probably afford it," Sonja says and slaps him on the arm. "Elbows off the table, and stop staring."

They have other customers that night, who almost distract them from the shenanigans of the R&D table – but not quite, it kind of looks like they're re-engineering most known bar tricks to be unnecessarily complicated. The other customers throw some alarmed looks their way, but spotting Stark right in the thick of things they relax – and then begin inching their way closer, not so surreptitiously moving tables. Sigrun eventually goes to lay down the law there.

Desmond shrugs his shoulders and goes back to work, ignoring the drama of the R&D – at least until Stark saunters up to the counter and _stares_ at him.

"What can I get for you?" Desmond asks.

"I don't know. What _can _you?" Stark asks, eyes narrowed.

The other bartenders teeter on the edge of listening and carefully concentrating their attention elsewhere, and generally choose the latter. Mattie stares a little, though, blatantly interested.

Desmond sets down the shaker he was in the process of cleaning and looks at Stark. He looks sorta tipsy in the way some sober people get in drunken company – a sort of second hand buzzed state. As far as Desmond has seen, though, the man hasn't drank a drop of alcohol that night – just the drink Desmond made, and the apple juice.

"Ice?" Desmond asks.

"Please," Stark answers, like it's a dare.

Okay. Desmond fills a whiskey glass with ice and then turns away to grab a bottle of ginger ale, bottle of ginger beer, and a non-alcoholic bitterer. It takes him about half a minute to mix the drink and put it in front of Stark – with one of those little Iron Man drink umbrellas on top.

Stark stares at it for a moment and then arches a brow. "A Gunner," he says flatly. The man knows his non-alcoholic drinks, huh. "Should I take that as symbolic or something?

Desmond shrugs. "Take it as you will," he says and turns to put the ginger ale and ginger beer bottles away. "I figure you got enough people pussyfooting around the subject," he comments then. "And from what I've seen, walking on eggshells doesn't really help." Most alcoholics just get annoyed by it, really, from what he's seen.

"Seen a lot of people like _what_?" Stark asks, narrowing his eyes.

"People _trying_," Desmond answers simply – because throwing the whole thing in people's faces isn't helpful either. Desmond nods at the drink. "If you don't want it, give it back – I'll drink it."

Stark is quiet for a moment, considering him. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he plops a straw in the drink.

Desmond snorts at the man and then looks away as his phone rings – shit, probably should've turned that on silent. Well, too late now, he thinks and checks the caller ID. Not a number he knows and not an official number either.

"Excuse me," he murmurs and motions to Mattie to take over for him, before turning to the backroom where it's a bit quieter. There he answers the phone with a, "Hello?" and nothing else. As an Assassin, you just don't volunteer more information than you have to, on the phone.

"Is this Desmond Milton speaking?" a male voice asks.

"Who is this?" Desmond asks, wary.

"My name is Hank Anderson, I'm with the Detroit Police Department. Are you Desmond Milton or not?" the man on the other end answers.

"Um – yeah," Desmond says, frowning – probably shouldn't, but Shaun said there might be a call. "Yeah, that's me, sorry – I've been getting a lot of weird phone sales people."

"Right," Hank Anderson answers, his voice flat. "Sir, were you employed at Eden Club in Detroit between years 2004 and 2005?"

"Um, yeah," Desmond answers, and only belatedly wonders if Shaun had adjusted his age for his brand new Desmond Milton ID. Did it say 25 or 29? He forgot to check. Shit – though, can he _really_ be in that much trouble for the Eden Club thing, honestly, if someone is pursuing the club for hiring minors, then surely he's the victim here, not the criminal -

"And did you at any point know and date a woman named Eliza Kamski?"

Desmond blinks. Okay. That – he didn't expect that. "Um, yeah?" he answers and then thinks, _shit_, did something happen to her, is she dead, are they looking for potential vengeful exes as suspects or something? "Uh, I wouldn't call it dating, but we went out a few times, yeah," he says. "It wasn't anything serious. I moved to New York, and she didn't seem too torn up about it. I figured we went our separate ways being friends."

"Right," Hank Anderson says again, somehow even flatter. "Well, Eliza Kamski was killed three months ago," shit, he knew it, "And we found your name in her kid's birth certificate. Sir."

… what.

"I've been trying to contact you ever since we found out – you see, sir, Eliza Kamski was murdered, and her kid is the only eyewitness to the murder – but he refuses to talk unless we find his father."

What, no. What?

"Which I imagine would be _you,_" Hank Anderson continues, sounding less and less impressed by the moment. "So, if you are feeling at all like picking up any sort of slack here for the kid, sir – kid, whose child support you haven't been paying for seven years, I might add – then perhaps we should have a talk."

Desmond's mind has kind of ground to a complete standstill.

Hank Anderson waits for a moment and then asks, less annoyed and more wary, "Sir?"

"Um," Desmond says slowly. "I just – what? Could you – could you repeat that. A kid?"

There's a moment of silence over the phone. "You didn't know," Hank Anderson then says.

"Um – no?" Desmond says, his voice going a bit high. "No, I didn't know. I had no idea."

Another moment of silence. "Well, this is awkward. Congratulations?" Anderson offers. "And maybe take a seat – sounds like I have some… maybe we should start this from the beginning."

"Y-yeah, maybe," Desmond says, then just falls to sit on his ass on the backroom floor. "Eliza had a kid? Eliza had _my_ kid?"

"Yeah," Hank Anderson says. "I'm sorry you have to learn about it this way. Let me just pull up what we have on him and I'll tell you everything…"

**Author's Note:**

> Relationship tag will be added at some point.


End file.
